Integrity
by Be3
Summary: The means which Snape employed to secure his position as Headmaster were many and varied.
1. Ye Good People of Slytherin

A/N: some chapters were originally written in Russian as parts of other fics, so if anyone here knew me at snapetales com under a different name… well met on ff net!

Chapter 1. Ye Good People of Slytherin

The economy of the Magical Britain, in Severus Snape's own humble opinion, was speeding towards disaster.

He saw much emigration (Ravenclaws), simmering discontent and absenteeism (Hufflepuffs) and almost casual revolt (Gryffindors). Not to mention the profits which many Slytherins had yet to learn to conceal. Moreover, nobody in the school – including the new 'professors' – seemed to accept his authority; oh, they did not openly defy his orders, and the Heads of Houses must have warned the students not to (attempt to) do him 'justice'…

(Except, maybe, Slughorn.)

…and yet, the Headmaster's days were, ah, unpleasant.

Paperwork. Granted, he understood the need for prudence. Take, for instance, the whole Care for the Magical Creatures fiasco. He was all set to keep Hogwarts working like a clock, without drawing unnecessary attention from the powers that be. He went all out to accommodate the old-timers in their personal approaches to teaching… but… _Flitwick_ asking for permission to use sugar plumes instead of feathers, to motivate the students not to drop the levitated objects (through their pureblood craving for hygiene, _etc. etc._) was not prudence. It was something far in the opposite direction. And the rest of them were hardly any better.

(Except, maybe, Sprout. She was always polite and moderate in her requests… but Hufflepuff alone knew what Sprout thought. She had that certain something in common with Molly Weasley, and he had – once – tried legillimizing the woman. Incidentally, the attempt convinced him to never beget children of his own.)

Indolence. Here was something he was not going to tolerate, and he had made it known.

Incompetency. Alecto's and Amicus's 'methods' made him re-evaluate Lockhart's apparent lack of raison d'être. He even made inquiries into the proper protocol for admitting one's employees into St. Mungo's Hospital. And their ignorance! Amicus had marveled where the odour of brandy and horses' sweat came from. What his sister smelled in the air was not fit to mention in polite society. Snape himself was occasionally driven up the wall by the sweet aroma of lilies. (In short, it was a miracle that all those batches of _Felix Felicis_ students were hell-bent on brewing had so far escaped detection.)

However, the Dark Lord was amused by the Carrows' reign of terror, and Snape dared not risk his displeasure.

Together, these factors (and the Dark Lord) contributed to a rather gloomy picture of the future of the country which he was even now contemplating.

'Knock,' said a disembodied voice from before the door of his office. 'Knock… knock?..'

'Professor, you are already in,' said Snape with all the patience of a wizard who'd taken the Castle of Hogwarts with one curse. (He wasn't sure that had been a right decision anymore.) 'You might as well materialize.'

In the middle of the room, a wispy figure of Cuthbert Binns slowly condensed into view. The air grew chillier. Binns peered at him with mild surprise.

'You do not look aged today, Headmaster, forgive my boldness.'

'When have I? It is, unfortunately, a common failure of those less than forty years old.' He nodded towards a large cardboard sign reading 'SNAPE' on top of parchments littering his desk. Binns tended to forget little things like surnames of people who had yet to gain historical weight through dying.

(Except, maybe, Potter.)

He gritted his teeth and nodded to the ghost. 'Have you revised the list?'

'Indeed, I have. It now contains three-and-forty positions, with accomplishments ranging from unbendable socks to being the primary reason why the Rules of the Quidditch World Cup are reviewed every twenty-three years and one hundred five days.'

'Very well,' said Snape. 'Proceed.' He had yet to create an antidote to stultification caused by Binns's lecturing, but a shot of good old Ogden's had showed promising results. Pity the youth who did not have such a refuge.

(Except, maybe, Longbottom.)

He had never expected to see so much of the particular Professor, though perhaps he should have. The Dark Lord did request they tailor the curriculum to the demands of the current era. At first, the ghost was puzzled and even offended by the renovations, then something (Snape did not ask what) happened to change his mind, and he started bringing heaps of proposals.

Goblins arose in a new light, to say the least. One could not help admiring their ingenuity. They strove to undermine wizards' monopoly on the privileges of constituting the magical community; bitter treason and blood feuds remained their favourite tools, but the applications fanned out in the recent time to encompass every aspect of 'the civilized way of life'.

(Except, maybe, education.)

On the subject of Wizard-Muggle relations, Binns – alone among the Hogwarts population – retained a happy ambivalence, though perhaps a touch more attention was paid to Muggles as affected by the Wizardkind. The crazy flight of Potter and Weasley in a charmed car has even been woven into the discussion, though there remained only the vaguest outline of the original story and the car has mutated into a fantastical fire-breathing beast. After all, Binns's memory wasn't what it used to be.

The centaurs, too, received a place of honour. Apparently, the hill figures in the lowland counties were their work! It was they who cut an itty bitty effigy down there near Wilmington, in commemoration of Merlin! (For which, Snape theorized, they just had to press a score human slaves – manual labour wasn't their strong point, and they did not approve of House Elves as domestic appliances.) Whatever happened to the 'hard fact and first-hand accounts' principle?

(Except, maybe, the Chamber of Secrets.)

He did not challenge Binns for two reasons – one, nobody ever challenged Binns, and two, all this pomp benefited a non-human staff member.

Despite not being counted a Professor, Firenze but was still teaching. It required a bit of bureaucratic contortionism on the Headmaster's part, and even with Snape's status in the Inner Circle of the Death Eaters things had looked bleak for a long while. However, even Death Eaters have heard about Trelony's uselessness in everything except predicting Potter's untimely demise – and curiously enough, she wasn't keen on it these days. Also, the Dark Lord held Divination in esteem. These two arguments allowed 'the creature' to be semi-legalized as a Professor's Aide, though the Ministry raised hue and cry and Trelony took to foreseeing elaborate fates which always ended gruesomely for a certain person of high position. (He collected her most laughable prognoses; like being burned to a crisp by the Hellfire, or bitten by a Basilisk, or even beheaded by Neville Longbottom. Technically speaking, he was keeping her on payroll for sheer audacity... and out of sheer audacity.)

The whole course of History of Magic was radically changed (and he had to verify every. Single. Comma), to suit the agenda of the ruling fraction, but the students, unfortunately for the new regime, attributed a different moral to the lectures. Ah well. Some battles you just can't win.

As a result, Snape was growing rather weary of the droning to which he was regularly subjected. He didn't like History when he studied it. Having to sign the innumerable lesson plans felt like an impot.

It was then a surprising development that he asked the ghostly Professor to comprise a list of Slytherins famous for their inventions, charity, artistic talent – whatever might have served the Greater Good. 'To install their statues in the halls and popularize their achievements among the student body.' He had been thinking about the future. Nobody else seemed to.

(Except, maybe, the DA.)

Binns, though hesitant at first, was too gracious to voice the common belief that Slytherins only served the Greater Good when a Gryffindor out-Slytherinned them. He set to the task and, with the help of their unflappable librarian, dusted off a few pathetic bookworms – which could hide in the Ravenclaw Tower, now that he thought of it.

('These people had worked for the glory of their House, Mr… Mr. Snaffle.'

'No,' said Snape, and the bookworms dissolved in the mists of Time.)

Madam Pince shrugged, Binns huffed, and a fortnight later another company was assembled. This one began with an Alchemist of the Second Class, who accidentally invented a self-stirring cauldron – it self-stirred every seventh Sunday, if the wind blew from South-South-East. And the only thing it didn't expel was unsalted porridge (of any kind) – though it would undoubtedly be the best-stirred porridge ever cooked in an overpriced, hideous tub.

According to Binns, it had to be re-charmed after three uses, and –

'_No_,' said Snape, and whoever queued up after the tub-torturer never got a chance to explain themselves.

It appeared that Slytherins weren't, _en masse_, a charitable, talented lot. He complained to Albus about the situation, and Albus argued that in their case the really worthy contributions to Progress would be either jealously guarded or… anonymously supplied. They were all Salazar's heirs. Tom Riddle simply happened to be his direct descendant.

Snape drank to it, dismissing the failure as insignificant. He had too many worries as it were.

…But Binns liked being helpful, and mental stimulation simply happened to be the only source of pleasure left to him.

So they met again, and again, and _again_; and a stream of dreamers and eccentrics tricked on into Snape's personal Hall of Honour. He didn't say that aloud – it would feel like a betrayal of something he held dear, though he couldn't name it if he tried – but he started to appreciate the harmlessness of those who had money and leisure and spent them on devising Evercool Jars or Mole Attractants. In real life, the resources usually went to more, let us say, down-to-earth purposes. There was something to say for people whose main fault was vanity, but who accommodated themselves with toys instead of lethal weapons.

(There was a rumour that the Mirror of Erised was of Slytherin design, though Snape suspected it had nothing to do with the object's origin.)

Sometimes, he was reminded of the experiments he had planned to do. Oh, he wouldn't squander time on unbendable socks; he'd go for the jugular. Not the Philosopher's Stone Jugular, either, but – a cure for the Thestral Bite Fever, or a treatise on the effect of the Polyjuice Potion on the development of latent Animagic powers. His ideas had come in handy some years ago, when that Granger girl turned herself into a giant cat.

But on the whole – what a waste of potential! To perpetuate such trifles would be an offence to his House's dignity – and though a lesson in humility was needed, public whipping would do more evil than good.

'Ahem?'

He shook himself. Binns had finished his litany and was waiting for an answer. In the slanting, pale rays of dusk he looked like… well, almost a herald.

'Thank you,' Snape said. 'I am afraid we'll have to discontinue the enterprise.'

'In that event, I shall take my leave of you, Headmaster, and bid you good evening. Is there anything else you require?'

'No, but I am grateful for the insight which your peerless expertise provided.' He took the heavy roll and locked it away. Binns nodded and melted through the floor.

In the end, did it matter, what all that dust amounted to in the eye of Eternity? His concern was with the living. He rose, flipping out his wand from its holster, and left the office for a stroll. There would be no new statues of Slytherins to clutter up the corridors.

'Except, maybe, yours…' whispered Albus Dumbledore.


	2. A Sentry

Chapter 2. A Sentry

Capsizing is always a threat if more than one man is allowed to steer. Discord is always a possibility.

There had been plenty of discord under Dumbledore – but there had been _Dumbledore_, too. Unlike his predecessor, Snape hadn't the luxury of being followed willingly. He sought to steady the boat as best he knew how, and kept his own Intelligence Service up to the most exacting standard. The fruits he reaped were worth every headache it cost him.

In order to do good by his men, though, he had to demand no less of himself; and on a night as miserable as this one – nights had a knack of turning up as miserable as you please – on such a night, he thought he could be excused for wishing the whole business to be another wizard's dragon.

Yet it was not to be... With an impatient sigh, Snape clicked his fingers, summoning one of his most trusted agents, a House Elf by name of Winky.

She appeared with a tiny _crack!_, quieter even than was required in Hogwarts, and bowed silently. He waved her to the side, away from the sight of smouldering ashes: a Headmaster could be called upon at any hour, and secrecy was paramount. A few charms ensured their privacy.

She crept where he pointed and looked about her. He could read her thoughts easily, without magic – the office was in dreadful disarray, and Winky's fingers itched to tidy it up. She was not allowed to; Master didn't like anyone to meddle with his parchments and what-not. And he wouldn't sleep with another person in the room.

'Report,' he ordered, leaning his elbows on his desk and putting his chin on his fists.

'Madam Sprout feels better.' As was their custom, she began with the senior staff, with the natural exclusion of his 'deputies'. 'No bags under her eyes, and she had twice as much for dinner as yesterday.'

Another custom was to begin with good news.

'Same dose in the morning.'

(His little spies were quite useful.)

'Aye, sir.'

'Hooch?'

Surely Hooch would stay out of harm's way? He had cancelled Quidditch this year, even though Gryffindors had lost their Seeker.

(After all, so had Hogwarts herself, so it was fitting.)

'In the Hospital wing. Double _Cru_ – ' She cowered.

'I see.' His lips thinned, and he rubbed his forehead with interlocked fingers. So much for going ahead and asking. 'I'll take care of it. What does Poppy think?'  
'Madam gave her a Potion, but Madam Hooch is 'in a grave condition.''  
Snape sighed. Of course, Pomphrey's brews weren't as strong, but he couldn't just walk up and help.

(Only at night. When nobody was watching.)

'Sinistra?' Albus would appreciate his sticking to a course.

'Spent all day in her tower. Meals, too. At the moment, is teaching Hufflepuff third-years. They brought pallets, since she doesn't attract watchers, and so don't they.'

He couldn't help smirking. History wasn't the only course to lull people to sleep! To sleep through a lesson by Snape himself, children would have to be hexed.

(He had, at times, entertained the idea.)

'How is she?'

'Well, save for a slight cold.'

'Let Poppy pay her attention,' he said in his most villainy accent.

'Aye, sir.' She nodded readily. This particular branch of jinxes was her specialty.

'And Poppy herself?'

'Still breathing, sir.' Was it his imagination, or did the Elf sound accusatory?

'Explain.'

'Doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, doesn't let her cauldron cool…' Winky's eyes were smiling. He hadn't made a mistake with his choice of an informer.

'Enough. The general idea is clear.'

'Than again, Miss Carrow poisoned her.'

'Poisoned!' Or maybe he had.

'Oh, not dangerously, Madam is fine, only tired.'

Snape closed his eyes, rubbed his face again and asked, sourly, to be told such things without delay. 'Not dangerously', indeed!

'Aye, sir.'

'Minerva?'

'Sleeps in the Gryffindor Common Room tonight. Her rooms were searched, and the radio confiscated. Nothing for direct contact with Mr. Potter was found.'

The radio? Minerva had mentioned something like that, probably thought herself clever… _yet__here__you__are__, __my__dear__; __information__is__a__costly__thing__nowadays_.

Winky stared at him solemnly. There had been bets, even among the Kitchen staff, on what next would be taken from Professor McGonagall's personal effects or supplies. The Transfiguration classroom was already stripped bare (what _did_ Amicus have in mind? Or have they had a duel – no, they couldn't have… could they?)

Minerva, not one to back down easily, moved on to obtaining desks and chairs from candy – every three days she received a parcel from Aberforth Dumbledore.

That coward! Snape's lips twisted derisively. The parcels were the only tie connecting Aberforth with the House of Gryffindor, to which he had once belonged; the only tie to the Order.

'Vector?'

'Left eye blackened, right knee scraped due to a quarrel with Mr. Carrow.'

He'd known, he'd_ known _somebody would snap, but – Vector? And with so few injuries? Amicus wouldn't leave a chalk outline of the venerable Professor…

Winky's ears trembled, and she looked down. 'Mr. Carrow wanted to…'

The string of synonyms Snape let loose would make the Dark Lord incinerate him on the spot, out of envy. (After sharing some choice epithets, collected through years of hard labour and less than ideal results.) The portraits on the walls grumbled and mumbled.

'Quiet, Severus!' Albus said, amused. 'Quiet.'

'But I can't just let it be!'

'You can, though; our little helper Confounded Professor Carrow when he… expressed his wish to Professor Vector.'

Winky grinned, showing her teeth. Her many teeth, kept in good shape. Snape pulled out the bottle he kept mostly to survive Binns's perfectionism and took a generous swallow.

His eyes grew round as Firewhisky turned to water in his gullet.

'You should not drink,' Winky tutted.

_For the love of…_

'An eye and a leg… She'd do. Flitwick?'

'Charmed his watch to show the punishments of Ravenclaw students as soon as one is appointed.'

(Charmed objects were all the rage in Hogwarts. Did Granger start a new fad? Or has it all begun with those ridiculous 'obstacles' paving the way to the Philosopher's Stone?.. Ah, who cared.)

'…argued with Miss Carrow when she lashed Mr. Smith.'

'And Mr. Smith?'

'Fainted, and was hauled off to the Room of Requirement.'

'Here,' he fished out a flask. She didn't need to ask what it contained or how to use it; wounds were an all-too-frequent complaint lately.

'Aye. Professor Flitwick sprained his wrist and only read theory in his last class.'

For Flitwick to actually break a sweat fighting Alecto, he must be hiding more than a slight indisposition. Snape felt his already short temper contract sharply. 'I'll take over his first class – is it Slytherin, seventh year?'

_Oh joy._

By Winky's wordless blinking, it was.

'Students?' he barked, not caring if he were rude, not caring about pretty anything really.

She straightened. Students were mostly looked after by their friends and Heads of Houses; only the worst suffering was to be reported.

'Mr. Creevey the elder is comatose; Madam wants to keep him like this…'

'Why?'

'For his flank to heal nicely. Mr. Carrow animated a boar, and Mr. Creevey saved Miss Abbot from it. Also, Miss Weasley broke an arm, but it is whole again; she was painting the Defense classroom red.'

Snape looked heavenwards in a silent plea for patience and took out a vial out of his pocket.

'Two points for Gryffindor… Creevey; externally; three times half an hour before breakfast.'

'Aye.'

'Longbottom?' He drawled the name out with a grimace of disgust, but she saw through him (though she was wise not to say anything to that effect); Mr. Longbottom had lately turned into a living legend – _everyone_ wanted to know what really happened to him.

'Safe and sound, lost two pounds.'

'He could, too. Is that all?'

'Aye, sir.'

'Did he?..'

'No, sir. No oatmeal, none at all.'

'Pity…' Snape sighed. 'Another Howler from that harpy, and I will resign.'

Winky didn't answer. Neither did Albus's portrait. Most of Mrs. Longbottom's correspondence was delivered directly to the Kitchens, and opened by kamikazes like Dobby.

(Who was, lately, conspicuous by his absence.)

'And… that is… no news from _there_?..'

'Mr. and Mr. Weasley sent a package for Madam McGonagall,' Winky's ears drooped again. 'I intercepted it.'

The post was checked serially before the recipient could so far as think about its arrival; he felt a twinge of annoyance that she should be ashamed of her actions in protection of the innocent – or maybe he was annoyed because _he_ wasn't ashamed. It didn't matter.

'It would be taken, anyway,' he said, striving for civility as a penance for his earlier shortness. 'What was inside?'

'Firecrackers, sir.'

Meaning, in truth, a list of missing wizards and witches.

And a – correction to the previous one.

'So be it. Deliver them to her rooms.'

Everybody except his demon-possessed 'deputies' was in the know. Everybody waited for and feared another package. McGonagall's classes would pass in almost utter silence, and she would only call out those who –

'Good night, sir.'

'Good night, Winky. And the night watch should report at six sharp! Don't be afraid to wake me up.'

She bowed and Disapparated, and the charms dissolved around him. With a sense of déjà-vu, he rose – slowly this time – and held his wand aloft. Hospital Wing first. Then the halls, one by one. Then a round of Potion making. Then sleep, if he could; an hour, two hours...

The equinox had come and gone, and yet he could swear the days were growing shorter.


	3. Inflection Point

A/N: this chapter took forever to write. The general idea was right there, under my nose, but it refused to move on to the keyboard… it feels a draft still; I'll rewrite it later, probably.

I decided to keep writing it from Snape's POV for now; though I promise there will be McGonagall's in the end.

Chapter 3. Inflection Point

Severus Snape was not cut out for small talk. On most days, it took a weighty matter for him to overcome his own default setting of _noli me tangere_ to approach another teacher, and a weightier one to allow reciprocation. It did not stand out much in Hogwarts, herself made of oddities and quirks; a fact many had used to advantage.

(Albus had once called the school a fluke. How wrong a man can be…)

On the other hand, Snape understood the importance of being a social animal now that he represented the whole school. But to have to nod to Bellatrix's deranged rhapsodies… when his ears still rang with contemptuous whispers and anguished cries of those he left behind answering a summons from the Dark Lord!

(And Potter had disliked Occlumency lessons.)

Bellatrix trailed off and edged sideways to where Narcissa was stonily enduring Greyback's humour. People were right; smiling eased one's way through life... In moderation. Snape surveyed the room from under half-closed eyelids.

The outing would better end quickly, or he'd have to violate the local Etiquette of Staying Put Even in the Face of Certain Death (a.k.a. the Dark Lord). He had a student to decide the fate of, and were he to linger here for another hour, Alecto would take matters into her own hands. She had groused about being left in charge; she might take her spite out on a defenseless boy. He sought out Amicus – well in his cups – which was to be proved.

And back home, Patrick Kent, a Ravenclaw Fourth-year, was awaiting expulsion. Maybe a cell in Azkaban or a ward in St. Mungo's, too, if they'd let him 'accidentally' escape.

…_or worse…_

No; he could count on Flitwick to keep an eye on him. All that remained to be seen was just how pissed-off Alecto was; perhaps sending Kent straight to asylum would have been the best course… she was very fond of blackmail… and Flitwick had been a Dueling Champion in so distant a past… but the Headmaster had had to go and chat up People of Influence.

(At least now he had a ready excuse to skirt the Malfoys.)

He made for the drinks, though he never so much as pretended to partake of them – not that he was alone in that. (Lucius had complained about the waste of wine on 'august occasions'. To this Snape had replied somberly, 'It is known as a fluke.')

Picking up a footed tumbler, he went on meandering around the room, answering as often as not and thinking, thinking all the time about what he would do and say when he came back.

_So. A fifteen-year-old, quiet and given to day-dreaming halfblood breaks his wand after casting a Cruciatus curse on his classmate – after actually _cursing_ his classmate._

(He very nearly did something foul himself when Minerva gasped, 'But he's not a Slytherin!' – except that he'd thought that, too.)

_Then, after a Detention is appointed and refused – really, this going through the motions was becoming tedious – he runs out of the classroom, out of the castle and is caught in Hogsmeade by a well-meaning Mm Puddifoot._

Snape shuddered, and Pettigrew, who had been mastering whatever passed for courage in his little heart to talk to him the whole evening, whimpered and made himself scarce.

_Meanwhile Hogwarts is in uproar; students, teachers, portraits, ghosts and Patronuses scour the place and vicinities. Yield: two Hufflepuffs stumbled upon in a 'secret' passage – he gave them over to Poppy Contraception-is-Your-Master Pomphrey – and a Gryffindor trying to rattle herself free of chains in a public one. The chains 'mysteriously' break and the girl disappears for good, but in her case there is no need to worry: a portrait confirms her acceptance in the Room of Requirement._

Snape sneered, making Rookwood blush and Dolohov scowl. (The impact of the Café Incident on their standing among their peers had not yet worn off.) Both Death Eaters turned away and pretended to ponder Matters of Importance, which made Snape's sneer all the wider, and somewhat amused.

The Room of Requirement, indeed! The Room of Neville Longbottom and his Merry Men! A nest of – of lions – no, that was a bad metaphor; a pit of lions right under his nose, and he had to tolerate it, just because there was no way to smuggle them out of the Castle! (The Carrows had the sense to destroy the Vanishing Cabinet.) Oh how would he like to excise the growth!

'Carve it away… ruthlessly…' he murmured, watching Thicknesse smooth out his beard.

_As the child is being brought to the Headmaster's office, Amicus does not promise anything definite in the way of punishment. By the time Snape sees him he's a sobbing mess, ready to beg anyone for protection; to agree to any fault. Nobody can fix his wand or make him a new one. Nobody in school (besides the three servants of the Dark Lord) even knows the whereabouts of Mr. Ollivander._

_Nobody stands between Patrick Kent and the 'punitive measures' the likes of which Hogwarts had never permitted._

_And Snape's Dark Mark flares to life in the exact moment his eyes land on the boy._

He swore, silently and violently, his hands unpleasantly cold with sweat. There was nothing at all in the meeting's agenda to require his attendance, except groveling at the Dark Lord's feet – figuratively for now. The Carrows had been called, too, but he ordered Alecto to stay, perhaps in the hope to find her six feet under upon return. A risky move, but he played his cards well, and the Lord was not too annoyed…

Still, leaving without leave was a grave insult. He scanned the crowd, noticing suddenly the void in which he was standing by himself.

No, not exactly by himself.

'Ah, friend Severus. You seem so preoccupied tonight.'

'My Lord,' he dropped his eyes in submission.

'Will you share your trouble with your friends?'

'I lost a needle in a bottle of hay,' he blurted out and could have smacked himself.

'So? You are a wizard.' The Dark Lord encouraged. Laughter echoed briefly.

'Finding it is not the difficulty.' Snape made himself look up for a moment, a self-deprecating smirk upon his lips. 'Rather, I wonder if it can be turned into a straw without extraction – and disturbing the whole.'

Voldemort's snake-like features narrowed. The silence turned absolute. Snape continued, smoothly and precisely, though inside his Occlumency shields he was feeling a bit lightheaded: 'A fellow Professor put the question to me, and I could not answer at once. If a nail is turned into a nail, will it be a new nail?'

'And such academic trifles bother you to the point of inattention?' Voldemort conjured up a rusty stud out of thin air, not acknowledging the light applause, and made a show of examining it as if it were a diamond of the first water.

'My lord! We scholars feed upon academic trifles,' Snape protested with an ingratiating smile, humiliating himself further by bringing up his poverty.

His prize was a calculating look. Under the circumstances it could be interpreted as an invitation to speak.

(If only he were sure about that.)

'…And if I turn the whole hay-and-a-needle stack into a pure hay-stack, will all straws be remade?

Will they become sterner? Coarser? More flammable? Other_?_'

_Will the sense of justice be eroded by the wrongness of an Unforgivable Curse being pardoned (and all pettier offences therefore excusable if done by order), or will it be crushed by guilt?_

There was a limit beyond which a break could not be repaired with any amount of charms; logically, there had to be a limit beyond which an object refused transfiguration. Long ago, he had read the Alchemist on the topic; the old wizard propounded that magic created the world whenever it occurred: the clock only ran forwards.

The other point he had deciphered from the positively fulsome language was that 'true sorcery' – the kind which still, half a millennium after the note was written, seemed unreachable – would go even beyond that; and Death, the destroyer of men, would be destroyed.

Now Snape was staking his own life, Kent's sanity, and maybe the outcome of the whole _war_, on the assumption that the Dark Lord had neglected his Flamel studies.

The Dark Lord canted his head to the side.

'Do not concern yourself with elements, Severus. Not all that glitters is gold; though I admit, hay has its shine… for asses.'

'Aye, my Lord.' The warning was clear, and he did not care for the mocking.

'You may go,' Voldemort said in a bored voice. Not trusting his knees to hold him up for much longer, Snape did the rude thing and Disapparated from the spot.

He sat down in a heap some distance away from the gates of the school and breathed out his fear.

The needle could be broken beyond any hope already, but he owed it to the boy to try.


	4. Blood Magic

A/N: this one is so long... and yet... I think I should rewrite it, too.

'I rule with a rod of iron.'

The hinges croaked.

'Headmaster?'

Argus Filch, who was probably even more versed in Master Black's legendarium, peered at him in the cold yellow light and stepped back. Quotes like that were a sign that Snape'd reached dangerous depths of self-control and should be avoided.

'Come with me,' he ordered, just to be contrary. The school was still standing upright; all turrets and gargoyles attached in the right places. No scorch marks, at least on the outside. And it was quiet; whatever hostilities had occurred, they had already blown over. Still, he Disillusioned himself.

The caretaker pursed his lips and turned, hefting the torch aloft. The flame flickered in the draught.

'Casualties?' Snape asked, trailing after him in the eerie silence. Filch jumped.

'None, sir.'

'Hmm.'

Strictly speaking, Filch's definition of casualties differed from, say, Minerva's and even Snape's on occasion. But the answer was what he wanted to hear, so he let it be.

He let many a thing be lately. Lily would have been appalled.

He smirked, imagining Headmistress Potter. The Werewolf would be there, for one thing, probably in Hagrid's place; which Hagrid had no business vacating. The oaf. Jerk Potter would be the Flying Instructor (he found he wouldn't mind that much, since Hooch didn't seem capable of controlling her students; rather like their gamekeeper in that respect). The Mongrel would confound the Dark Lord's curse on the D.A.D.A. position by teaching in his Animagus form. (He could at least play a shooting target.)

Lily herself, magnificent in her outrage, would _squeeze_ Charity Burbage back out of the Dark Lord's snake and reinstate her in her office. She then would break Nagini's fangs, throttle the Dark Lord with his pet and send the now harmless creature to the Zoo. Not the London Zoo, naturally; it wasn't Harry Potter-proof. Perhaps they could make a new one out of Malfoy Manor.

Molly Weasley would replace Filch, who would marry Mrs. Figg, make truce with the poltergeist and undermine the Ministry of Magic with the help of Weasley twins – one could always count on them if one was after some nifty undermining.

And Severus Snape? Why do you ask for Snape? He's just this quaint Potions Master. Brewing to his heart content in his dark dungeons, never having a care about who would substitute whom, la-la-la, no, not the Head of Slytherin, thank you very much…

Darn. He _was_ tired.

They stopped.

Snape looked inquiringly at Filch's back. While he was amusing himself with fairytales and clutching his wand in a tight fist in case of an ambush, they had traipsed to the Hospital Wing. He felt his hackles rise.

The caretaker moved to the side. Snape made himself visible again, stepped ahead of him, shoulders squared, and opened the doors to the dimly lit ward.

Only one bed was occupied – by Patrick Kent, sniffing and cowering but unharmed – well, at least breathing; Miss Chang, the victim, was sitting beside him holding his hand.

Professor McGonagall was facing off Professor Carrow at the foot of the bed: wands drawn but lowered for now. Flitwick was backing Minerva – though perhaps he misread it entirely: Minerva was the only thing preventing Filius from going for the jugular the instant Alecto blinked. Poppy was in her room: jars clinked and liquids sloshed, a bit pointedly.

'Evening,' Snape said, almost pleasantly. He could conjure a non-verbal shield in reasonably short time, but you can't block some curses.

Everybody turned to meet him. Poppy nodded and went back to work. He would have to nettle her about keeping long hours.

'Headmaster?' Filius said. He raised his head and darted a commanding look at his protégé.

'Headmaster,' Minerva said with effort. Her lips were white with fury.

'Headmaster…' echoed Miss Chang, dejected. She wasn't meeting his eyes.

'Severus,' Alecto smiled.

'You may go,' Snape said, feeling that he had had enough drama for one night.

Minerva laid a hand on Chang's shoulder; the girl patted the bedclothes awkwardly and let herself be led away. Filius remained, and Snape had no illusions about his oh so absent wand. Most wizards who took Dueling seriously could veil their minds to a degree, even untrained in Occlumency.

Alecto huffed and began complaining about lack of discipline, lack of respect, lack of penalties – he tuned her speech out without absorbing a word. He did make a mental note to have her mirror molten after she was fired. Who knew what bred in its luckless depths.

When he judged his Charms Professor to teeter on the cusp of committing a beautiful spot of wizardry, he took out his own weapon and stopped his Deputy in mid-rant.

'I shall take over the matters here. Go. Wait for Amicus.'

She caught the hint – that Amicus's only chance of safe return was by Levitation – and grudgingly obeyed.

Feigning disinterest, he turned his back on Flitwick (a counter-intuitive move, but it paid).

'How do you do, Mr. Kent?'

A whimper. A shrug. A rictus.

'Madam Pomphrey! Your prognosis?'

'Let the boy sleep his fill,' she answered immediately. The boy perked up at her approach. A chocolate wrapper could be seen under the next bed. 'There should be no… aftereffects.'

'You don't feel it beneficial to transfer Mr. Kent to a hospital?'

Poppy wasn't daft.

'I do. However, I prescribe rest in familiar surroundings, to calm… the troubled spirit.'

'I am afraid,' Filius piped in obligingly, 'that right now our Common Room might not be conducive to convalescence.'

'Perhaps you should explain to your students the meaning of unity and supportiveness?'

Definitely counter-intuitive.

'Please,' Kent croaked from where he huddled in misery. 'May I go home?'

'I haven't decided upon your punishment yet.'

'And I haven't agreed with your decision,' Flitwick said lightly.

Kent looked from one to another and shut his eyes.

'I am awaiting your word in my office, Headmaster.'

'Such dedication.'

The Charms Professor smiled at his student, waving a hand in a quick pattern of protection. Snape didn't know whether to feel affront or pride – surely Flitwick didn't expect him to physically hurt a minor, did he? This wandless ward was a bit much.

…Except he was a Death Eater, and Filius a Head of House. He remembered to leer at the retreating back.

'Sir?'

The Headmaster pulled up a chair. 'Relay the incident. Condense it to the pertinent.'

As the child launched into his rambling recitation, he leaned back, allowing himself to brood. Lily would never be a jailer. But how? Wasn't he doing all there was to do?.. Answer _this_, Professor Potter!

She was on his mind again. Predictable. He had yet to sort out the Pensieve Problem: how to safeguard the memories _and_ to make the boy – _her_ boy – view them in just the right moment, bearing in mind that Snape's own existence for any amount of time was not a given. It would be easier if Potter, or Granger or Weasley, were lured to Hogwarts. A Portkey? A mysterious message from Dumbledore? _How_?

Granted, he'd made provisions in case he _would_ die. A magical picture was excellent for passing information. Still, it required Potter's presence in the school, and the brat was too clever to come.

(One point for Gryffindor.)

Snape had provided for another opportunity, too, though this one was really a stretch of imagination and caused him some… no, lots of embarrassment, and a painful pecuniary loss. A couple of, ah, creative portraits placed in strategic locations. He wasn't stingy, but artists were both rare and greedy nowadays – more so considering his demands. Never mind. He'd Obliviate Monsieur Sabatier afterwards.

(And Minerva's face when she saw all those sheets and laurels piled before his desk was a thing to cherish. He didn't explain anything to her – she would learn soon enough.)

He noticed that the ward was silent and Summoned a note he'd prepared just before succumbing to the Dark Lord's insistence. Actually, it had been written a while ago, when he was evaluating Crouch's lessons plans.

He cast _Muffiliato_, waved the torch into full brightness, tapped the roll and read out the opening paragraph.

'Of the three, two can't be forgiven in a literal Sense; two subdue the Will; and two are Brothers. For is not Sleep a Brother of Death?'

The student goggled at him.

'This is a synopsis of a speech read before the Wizengamot in 1717.'

'When the curses were made Unforgivable!' Kent gasped.

'Just so.' And he flicked the parchment to the boy. 'It is my persuasion that theory should go in hand with practice.'

'We weren't given any theory on the – um.'

'Not-Anymore-Punishable-By-Azkaban Magic?'

He saw that his laid-back attitude confused the poor Ravenclaw. 'Rest assured, Mr. Kent, your dashing escape will be addressed.'

'You're going to expel me!'

'No.'

'Have me scour the Forbidden Forest and torture a Unicorn!'

'No!'

'Turn me into a cockroach and line up House Elves to -'

'NO!'

'…Sorry, sir.'

'Read this through very attentively. If you hold yourself together until the end of our discussion, I will let you go without so much as a reprimand.'

Patrick Kent was not unintelligent and recognized a threat. He hesitated before picking the parchment up. (Nothing could be gained by asking _where_ he should go, anyway.)

Also, a little spell that hugged him like a downy comforter prevented outbursts, among other things; Filius had done wisely.

Time trickled by, and Snape's weary mind wandered again. Idly, he snapped his fingers to receive a laden tray, but ate sparingly.

Flamel – Penelope Flamel, for a change – considered Cruciatus to be a flower of a withered branch of Blood Magic (and so not classifiable as Light or Dark). Mages who'd developed it in times unknown were concerned with only one distinction – 'Mine' or 'Not Mine'. _Crucio_ was, therefore, about possession, and thus close to _Imperio_, only cruder (and it 'subdued the Will', in a way).

But wizardkind evolved. 'Ever forwards', Flamels' motto.

Carved out on their tombstones.

Humanity seeped, drop by precious drop, into the catacombs of wizards' philosophy. Torture was recognized as abominable. (He wondered if people thought of it when the Dark Lord's 'progressive' regime was taking root. A new Dark Age would mean a decline in modern magic, and that was something Britain could not afford… muggles were everywhere, and memory charms weren't a panacea… how long until the rot felled public education? It had begun. He had two teachers straight out of the Druidic Age on his payroll.)

Cruciatus shared something essential with the Killing Curse, too… no wonder the Dark Lord loved it and could crush even those who could not invoke in him any emotional response (and Voldemort wasn't above those, whatever he liked others to believe).

'Properly cast, it _cannot_ be forgiven,' Snape said dryly, looking at the bedpost. He'd noticed that the student had finished his task and was waiting for him to resume conversation. 'Brain damage isn't the only reason for it.'

(Personally, he found that invoking Blood Magic always left at least one survivor who could not 'move on'.)

The startled child gulped and shook, hugging himself, but he was relentless. Kent had challenged his authority as a Headmaster. Let him see what happens to people whom Severus Snape treated as adults.

'There are documented cases of personality changes after decades. Divorces. Disorders of body and mind. The victims don't always know the basis of their suffering, and may say they 'had put the ordeal behind them'; which is, invariably, a lie. Such is the nature of the curse.'

'I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to draw blood.'

'But you did, didn't you?.. _For every Piece of Magic is a Test, to which a Wizard subjects the World; it happens because it has to happen. Thus, even a Muggle can arouse a Magical Object from its Sleep, if it has absorbed enough of the Subtle Fluid; and testing the World, the Wizard also tests Himself,_' he cited verbatim.

'_And for those Cases in which the Author of the Curse cannot be traced, the Name 'Miracles' is retained, although to think so is a Mistake,_' Kent read out dully.

'Well, we dispensed with the Fluid, why should we still have Miracles?' Snape smiled thinly. 'You cut off a person from your image of wizardom. Miss Chang does not live in the same world as you do.'

'I will never do that again,' Kent said with a kind of certainty which sent off warning bells in Snape's head.

'You will. If a teacher tells you to, you will.'

'They will have to _Imperio_ me first.'

'Who says they wouldn't?'

They acknowledged each other's stands.

'Thank you, Professor,' Kent said honestly and hunched over slightly.

'You're welcome.'

Where did he feel this wave of relief tonight? It was so familiar…

'I don't have a wand.'

'From now on, you will practice wandless spells. Headmaster's orders.'

Ha!

Victory was sweet. He stood up and marched out, a spring in his step. Trump _that_, Professor Potter! Though he could have kissed her right now.

(He remembered one of the times when he _should_ have kissed her. They were coming back from a concert – some obscure muggle band. She said the wind was 'like a young apple', and that should have been his clue, he just knew it.

Well, he knew it now.

It had rained, and the puddles and leaves gleamed like her plaits in the rays of the setting sun.

'They – were – so – boring,' Severus said, kicking a stone with each stride. 'Look, you're yawning.'

'I'm not,' Lily said. She closed her eyes and threw her head back. 'I'm drinking the sky.'

He stared. It was chilly. She should have put her jacket on.

'Don't choke,' he said awkwardly.

'Never!'

And Lily laughed and skipped to the bus station.)


	5. Routine Maintenance

A/N: another dialogue-filled chapter. Sorry. It's hard to write action.

Vector quotes J. L. Kipling's book 'Beast and Man in India', which can be easily found on the Web. As to the dragon blood… can anyone guess _why_ there are any differences of opinion?

I am not sure whether this will or will not turn out to be an AU. I very much would like to make it one, but if no solid idea appears in the meantime, it will have to follow canon.

* * *

Chapter 5. Routine Maintenance

Days passed.

Snape had a feeling – an itch below his left shoulder blade – that something was seriously amiss and he would regret the consequences. The school felt different. Sizzling. And yet – nothing was happening that hadn't happened before.

He closed the door of his office behind him, locking it with three powerful spells, not minding the portraits' surprise. It was still early; usually he would not be up here for hours. Very well; let them puzzle it out. Let _them_ quake in fear and make mistakes. He will think.

Snape nodded to Dumbledore – though the old man couldn't see it; he'd been turned around to face the wall – and Summoned a lunch tray for decoration.

What did he know for certain?

People were restless.

Potter was not in school, and it was bad. The Dark Lord would attack at the end of the year, there could be no doubt. He hadn't personally defeated Dumbledore, and it was a sore point with him. He had tried to win Hogwarts for years, and now both ringleaders were out… perhaps the Headmaster wasn't the only one to realize it, but so far he hadn't seen any preparations taking place. Either his charges were too clever to be caught, or too dumb to even try – though there had been some good omens.

For instance, Hooch had found a way to fool Amicus. Not that _that_ was a difficult task, given that he was nursing a hangover and she was her usual charming morning self. Still, Snape chafed at having to overlook such brazenness – not that Amicus didn't deserve it.

('Severus, I authorized Hooch's new lesson plans.'

'What new lesson plans?' he parroted weakly.

'The Quidditch-themed ones. You know, throw the bone to the dog.'

'But we banned Quidditch,' Snape said, cold sweat beading on his brow.

'Sure we did. They won't play; they will only fly without balls. Got it? Without balls!'

Yes, thought Snape. Without tools they could _only_ learn flying in formation, feinting, swooping, swerving, chasing and hanging upside down from their brooms. And the training now encompassed not only the teams, but _all_ of Hooch's students.)

Sometimes, he wanted to throttle Amicus out of mere self-preservation.

…so that could account for some of the disquiet in the air. He wouldn't bank on it, though. There had to be another reason. (Reasons?)

Pomona was short with her Badgers. She actually gave two detentions last week, and Snape saw the torment and the decisiveness in her face. What had they done, to make her so angry? Worse still, why did they stoically accept it? Hufflepuffs were by no means faint-hearted, but to be chastised by their Head of House was for them always a harsh punishment. Neither McGonagall nor Snape had ever wielded such power over their students, and Madam Sprout had not invoked it for decades.

Some Legillimency was in order… but whom to Legillimize?

Professor Vector's mood was a riddle, too. He couldn't recall another time when she was so witty and light-hearted – triumphant, even. And angry. Were it not for her, meals would be both a duller and a less nerve-wracking affair.

Just last night, she offered an arithmantic problem – for the Carrows, undoubtedly. Thank Merlin, she had the presence of mind (or simply the good taste) not to spell that out.

'There is a curious tradition in India; it lends itself easily for mathematical notation.'

'Let us hear about it,' said McGonagall, aiming to liven up the conversation.

'Thank you,' Vector leaned back in her seat. Her eyes gleamed. 'It is a method for catching crows.'

'A live crow is spread-eagled on his back, with forked pegs holding down his pinions. He flutters and cries, and other crows come to investigate his case and presently attack him. With claws and beak he seizes an assailant and holds him fast. The gypsy steps from hiding - '

'Aha!' Filius cried, enjoying himself. Hagrid would be told all about this curious Indian tradition.

'- and secures and pinions the second crow. These two catch two more, the four catch four more, and so on.'

'But there has to be a point when he has enough,' Pomona pointed out sensibly. Vector turned to her with a dazzling smile, not at all offended by the interruptions.

' - until there _are_ enough for dinner, or to take into a town, where the crow-catcher stands before some respectable Hindu's shop and threatens to kill the bird he holds in his hand. The Hindu pays a ransom of a pice or two and the crow is released.'

They laughed, then, for nobody had expected such a peaceful end to the tale.

'What a beautiful illustration of the exponent function!' Filius offered.

'Isn't it? Mr. John Kipling is an excellent storyteller.'

'A Muggle,' Alecto muttered. She was no longer interested in the topic.

'It helped me to think up a problem for my next lecture,' Vector went on. She was looking down into her plate, but Snape's back went rigid in apprehension. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught McGonagall lowering her cup with care.

'A gypsy has caught sixteen… birds and is going to sell them, but on his way he sees four more and catches them, too. One… by… one. How many… crows will have dusty… backs, if every one of them has equal chance of being… the bait?'

For a horrible moment, silence enveloped the Professors' Table. Alecto's lips were white with fury. Snape's wand was in his hand –

'From eight to twelve,' the Head of Ravenclaw said lightly. 'The probabilities will need some calculation, though.'

Snape let out a hiss, remembering how close they came to an outright brawl. He was losing his positions, one… by… one, and he knew what happened when a vacuum of power was created. Who would profit from anarchy?

Eh, it was a point-of-view sort of question. Any child who'd looked up 'Albus Dumbledore' knew that the wizard discovered twelve uses of dragon's blood. Any Potions Master who'd actually read the original text knew just as adamantly that there were only eleven. And Nicolas Flamel had waved the matter off, grumbling that he'd never been good at numbers. (Lead into gold? Here you are.)

…And Snape was very much a Potions Master.

He scowled. Albus was laughing at him. Again.

Back to his flock, though… there was something else that stood out of the usual harum-scarum of Hogwarts intrigue. Poppy Pomphrey turned into a complete workaholic and was _avoiding Pomona Sprout_.

What on Earth was going on?

His Elves did not see anything in the two witches' behavior that could explain this – and they agreed that both went out of their ways to spend as little time together as possible.

Snape picked up the ham sandwich. He did not have an appetite. However, he could not miss lunch, not if he had any hope of skirting dinner and staying upright until tomorrow. Ah, Winky had added extra sugar into his porridge. Bless her little heart. He made himself chew and swallow.

There was also this… recent misunderstanding with Albus to take care of. He promised himself he'd turn the portrait around as soon as he'd do credit to Winky's cooking. It took all pleasure out of eating.

His 'playing hero' in the case of the Ravenclaw Fourth-Year kicked him soundly in the back.

No, Kent wasn't ostracised, as he'd feared. His fellows seemed to forgive him. He studied, or struggled to study, History, Astronomy, Care of Magical Creatures (the theory), Muggle Studies, Herbology, Flying, Runes and Potions… and without knowing it, he became the latest bone of contention between the last and the current Headmasters of Hogwarts.

Dumbledore was of the opinion that Snape could teach the boy Occlumency and use him as an agent to pass The Intelligence to the Potter boy. Nobody would suspect him. Nobody would see anything odd in Snape summoning him to his office day in and day out – after all, Snape did need a spy among the student body, didn't he? Nobody would even blame the kid for the supposed lip-service – there were too many opportunities in it to begrudge him the 'privilege'. And Occlumency could be learned without a wand.

But Snape refused. The danger was too great, he said. The boy was unstable, the tortures would be terrible. Let him live in peace.

(The downside was that he still had no alternative plan, and the End of the School Year was approaching fast.)

They argued, and in the course of their quarrel Dumbledore let it slip that it was he who had hired the Skeeter woman to write his biography. To hide the truth _in plain sight_.

There were, Snape knew, worse surprises. Still, he found himself on the verge of speaking _in plain words_. Rather like when the Dark Lord was teaching him the Shields. Good thing, too, that all those years ago the Dark Lord had a sense of humour.

'You did what? Dumbledore! This goes beyond your usual level of – of – explain yourself before I remove you to the Kitchens!'

Dumbledore sighed and twirled his glasses in his lap.

'The _idea_ was mine; though she would have come upon it by herself, or been offered by someone else.'

'I bet she has!'

'The book should have been printed sooner,' Dumbledore shrugged. 'She re-edited it in record time. Rita is a professional.'

Snape turned away from the portrait, keeping silent until he was again master of his own tongue.

'If so, she would have the original stored in a safe place.'

'She might, or she might not.'

'Do you not care what people think of you? Be reasonable! You will be an icon for decades to come, until all this blows over – and after. Wizards will model their decisions based on yours.'

The old wizard smiled coldly.

'Fools will, yes. Wise men will base theirs on the demands of the situation.'

Snape sniffed. 'You don't appear to trust Mr. Potter.'

'Trust him,' Albus repeated thoughtfully. He had the grace not to dodge the accusation. 'Dulce et decorum pro patria mori est. But it hurts, and Harry is young.'

So am I, Snape thought. I'm thirty-nine years old. Why should some remain true and honorable when all around them cry, down with honour?

'Why do men vow to do things they would have done willingly without a word?' Albus whispered.

With a cry, Snape whirled around and burned a hole in the portrait's frame – he checked his hand in the last moment.

'You saw my Patronus!'

'Severus - '

'Have I asked you anything? Anything at all, besides to save Lily Potter?'

'Severus - '

'And now you come out and tell me this!'

'No, I don't – I _ask_ you.'

Yes, he thought. If only you told it. But you always left us to think for ourselves, didn't you?

'I do – what I do,' he said, wincing for the awkward expression. 'For the sake of Mr. Goyle or Miss Lovegood or Argus Filch as much as for Lily's memory. It is called 'integrity', Dumbledore.'

'Twelve uses,' Dumbledore said under his breath.

'Pardon?'

'Nothing, my boy, nothing. I agree with you entirely. By the way, is there a Death Eater you particularly dislike?'

'Why?'

'You might want to lose to him someday. Soon. And spectacularly.'

He had turned the picture away then, to spare them both the temptation to say words they would later regret…

Severus Snape twirled his teacup, scowling, and left the last spoonful of oatmeal smeared on his plate.


End file.
